Read The Exchange for Free Online

shit together’. Not that he could talk, but that was another story. Wherever I seemed to go, chaos inevitably followed, and that went for my time-keeping too.
    Kyle answered the door, dressed in snug navy chinos and a well-pressed white shirt. I smiled indulgently, and at once felt like a wife must do who makes the same old excuses for her husband all her life. He was a boring dresser, but underneath it he was a lovely guy. And perhaps I was using his clothes to judge him unfairly and quite wrongly.
    I thought of Rachel. Rachel knew what Kyle was like in bed. Not that I could ask her. I hadn’t even met her – I knew her even less than I knew Kyle. Our conversations, via Facebook, had been relatively brief, lacking in intimacies.
    We’d had no contact since taking over residence in each other’s home, in each other’s
life
, though of course the opportunity was there. I wondered if that was because Rachel had just breezed into my life, found her feet without hesitation. Here I was, stumbling around, while she just got on with it.
    I wondered what she was doing right now, and whether she’d be jealous that I was at Kyle’s house. Presumably she wouldn’t, given that she was the one who had split up with him. But then people still get possessive about their exes, sometimes, even when it was them who called it off. I also thought, for the first time, about my flat and about how Rachel must be coping with it in all its disarray and dishevelment. Of course, I’d tidied up and cleaned it before leaving. But someone like Rachel would find it very difficult to cope with all that stuff, of that I had no doubt. I thought I might Facebook her the next day, find out how she was in general and let her know that I didn’t mind if she wanted to box some stuff up just to get it out of her sight and make the place her own a little more. I didn’t want her feeling as out of place as I did.
    Kyle was just showing me into his kitchen, which smelt of tomatoes and basil and fresh pasta, when the doorbell rang.
    ‘That’ll be Morg and Tats,’ he said and, telling me to take a seat, he headed back towards the front door.
    I felt too uncomfortable to sit down, so I wafted self-consciously around the kitchen, stirring the bubbling pasta sauce, sniffing the mozzarella that lay neatly sliced on the chopping board like a row of creamy white coins.
    Then they were there, in the doorway, and Kyle was doing the introductions.
    ‘Rochelle – Morgan and Tatiana,’ he said, gesturing back and forth between us.
    Tatiana stepped forward into the room, one hand extended. My first impression was of a glacial blonde, perfectly groomed, probably swimming in money, with a chip of ice where her heart should be. Of course, it’s ridiculous to make judgements like that about people, but I’m just relating my first impressions. Tatiana had an uptight little smile on her scarlet lips and the aloof air of someone who thinks they’re on a completely different level to you. Which she undoubtedly was. But that’s not the point.
    Morgan followed in her wake, a hand hovering in the small of her back. His hair was greying but expensively styled, and a deep, rich, designer cologne matched his navy linen suit, unruffled. His manner, like Tatiana’s, was only superficially warm.
    I looked at Kyle. Already I wished I hadn’t accepted this invitation. These people thought I was a piece of shit and could barely hide their feelings. What was Kyle doing even inviting me here? I was not part of this world, and trying to bring me into it – even out of kindness – was a huge error of judgement on his part.
    Kyle moved his head slightly from side to side, as if discouraging me from bailing out. His eyes urged patience and calm. I forced a smile.
    ‘So nice to meet you,’ I said. Then looking at Tatiana, I added, ‘Kyle tells me you are a ballerina.’
    She smiled haughtily, inclined her head slightly in confirmation.
    I looked to Kyle for help, but he was